


The Weeping Willow

by Synergia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fem!Harry, girl!Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 20:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synergia/pseuds/Synergia
Summary: As Dumbledore says, love can be found in the strangest of places. Fem!Harry/Girl!Harry





	The Weeping Willow

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Harry Potter. All rights belong to the wonderfully talented Joanne K. Rowling. I’m not making any money with this.

Severus was just thinking that he would rather be stuck in the dungeons with a group of useless first-years blowing up their cauldrons than here in a hall full of exceptionally excited and irritating teenage hormones threatening to blow up much more than just cauldrons, as Miss Potter entered the room. He found himself holding back a gasp at the sight of her. Minerva had been just explaining to him about the preposterous members of the Weird Sisters, but he hadn’t been paying attention anyway. _Pull yourself together, you’re a spy, for Merlin’s sake!_

The way her coal-coloured hair fell on her shoulders – soft and elegant -, the way she held herself up – fearless but seemingly unaware of her own silent beauty (even he had to admit it) and fragile nevertheless under the veil of a weary heroin-, the way her delicate skin glowed underneath her exquisite dress which seemed to have gathered the silver stars from the night sky and magically painted them to the sapphire lace: a dark blue like the blue hour between evening and nightfall, not standing still but floating on the cool river of the fine fabric. The hem of her dress caressed the floor, made to look like the Great Lake covered with ice. Her emerald eyes shone with a subtle elation without her silly glasses on and as so, her whole being embraced the hall and made it glow warm and bright.

He became aware of the fact that he was not the only one out of breath seeing his most famous student enter the hall as he heard exclamations from his left and right sides. Even Draco’s mouth gaped openly at her figure, _the young fool_.

He wished for them all to look away, he saw that she was beginning to feel self-conscious at the glares, just a few months ago so full of hate and mockery at the young woman thrown to the spotlight far too often. But who was he to her but wind trying to shield a little flower petal from rainfall? Howling at the rage of the storm, essentially just making it worse?

Severus was afraid of breathing out, of giving himself away. He became the sudden urge to leave the hall, to go to the gardens, to fill his rusty lungs with icy air and be done with the evening but couldn’t take his eyes off her as she was now obviously searching for her companion of the evening. As she screened the crowd however her eyes found his and for a little moment something crushed inside of him as she gave him a little smile. But there was also something mysterious in her look besides the usual kindness so alike to her mother’s, something deep and thoughtful like a misty bog in the autumn in which to lose yourself into. He couldn’t quite understand it, but it made him frightened and agitated in equal measure. He needed something to crush.

To his utter annoyance, McGonagall had been likely watching him watching Miss Potter and her giving him the smile because before long she said: “She really does look quite nice and tidy this evening, doesn’t she?”

“Who do you…?” he growled.

“Well, Miss Potter of course,” she said, nodding her head in the young woman’s direction.

He growled some more for good measure: “As you say, Minerva,” working his hardest not to show any emotion at all under his mask of dark steel except disgust at least and boredom at most. He was really very interested in ending this unnerving conversation once and for all. Minerva, on the other hand, did seem quite invested.

“I must value every rare occasion you will not try to dissent me, Severus,” she said, with a fretful glint of amusement in her eyes, which went unnoticed to the black tense shadow standing beside her.

At that moment, it began to snow in the hall, in large white flakes, which nicely fell on Miss Potter’s hair and shimmered like white apple blossoms with petals of diamond.

He sighed inwardly. It was going to be a long evening.

* * *

“What has gone into you?” Ron asked Harriet with a dumbfounded expression on his face, “dancing with that black bundle of evil git?”

“Into me? What has gone into you, Ron?” Harriet asked fiercely, turning ruby from the anger brewing inside of her because of his silly accusations and his insulting of him, she couldn’t even say his name in her head, so filled with joy was she because of the dancing and so wildly mad at Ron for ruining the memory for her.

“First you sulk in the corner, then you ruin Hermione’s evening and now you’re going at me, is that it? Well, I hate to break it to you, genius, but just because you didn’t have the wit and the courage to ask her out and hence are having a lousy time doesn’t mean you get to scold others for trying to have a reasonably good evening!” Having sharply half-shouted at him, she bolted in the direction of the castle’s gates.

She was so angry, she could’ve punched someone, but instead punched her foot into the snow outside and fell, straining her leg.

“For Morgana’s sake,” she yelled at the snow, too tired, sour and sore to get up again. She hadn’t seen a certain professor of hers watching her screech at Ron (after the thunderhead had uncourtly interrupted her dancing with said professor) and following her with disquiet eyes as she left the hall.

* * *

“What do you think you are doing, Miss Potter? Shovelling snow?” a velvety low, but nevertheless cold voice asked behind her. She was startled and her body jumped slightly in the snow.

She saw his tall, black silhouette standing over her and wanted to ask if it’s forbidden but then remembered it was Ron who she was mad at, not Snape.

“I fell and didn’t bother to get up,” Harriet answered, not being able to hide the anger still pouring out of her mouth.

“Sir,” she added, a bit more quietly.

Severus watched her a long while, a wonderful sight of blue on the white background and golden stars glimmering in the black sky above, staring at them from afar.

“I see,” was his scarce answer.

“Merlin’s bloody pants, this whole ball business is really a load of troll-crap,” she exclaimed, after having thought about it for a while. 

“I’ll give you an Outstanding for your precise observation skills, Miss Potter,” Snape answered dryly.

Grinning, Harriet said: “I’ll take it, it’ll be the only one you’ll give me anyway.”

_Merlin’s bloody pants indeed, was Snape being funny in her presence? She must have fallen on her head._

He didn’t seem to know what to do with himself, so he simply crossed his arms on his chest, sulking. She was desperately trying to straighten her dress which had dishevelled itself in quite a large bundle, probably from the fall. After another long while he asked:

“What did Weasley do besides acting like a rude drunk?”

“Oh,” Harriet answered, now gathering herself and trying to calm her voice as she spoke to him,

“he wasn’t pleased to see us dancing.”

“Does that surprise you exceedingly?” the dark, slender figure asked with a sneer, an eyebrow raised.

“I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that even my best friend can’t allow me this one attempt at trying to enjoy myself on an occasion which I never even wanted to attend, as a part of another occasion, for which I would have given a lot to just withdraw my unwilling participation.” She seemed to be mildly out of breath after that exclamation, getting anew more and more bemused by the minute.

He didn’t seem to know what to answer to that, so he just remained silent and stared in her direction. But then he slowly unbuttoned his coat and gently put it around her shoulders.

“See to it that you don’t freeze to death,” he added strictly and again crossed his arms on his chest,

“the Headmaster wouldn’t be pleased.”

Harriet smiled a bit sadly and watched him stand over her. She noticed only now how beautiful of an evening it was. The fresh air in a misty embrace wrapped around them, the gentle, but cold, almost burning wind striking their skin, the silent snowfall covering his hair in a kind of crown which looked nice, she thought, the flakes on his eyelashes glistening and starting to melt, his breath a cloud of freezing smoke, his wooden, but pure smell of spices and fumes, old books and coffee, his sharp contours in this swirl of white and black, darkness and brightness, cold and warmth, and how the stars stitched to the dark sky didn’t loom over both of them, but sent a safe kind of glow to guard them, quietly illuminating the darkness with their being, albeit Harriet could not have known if they were stars still alive or already passed, projecting the memory of their lives on the two of them. She felt her throat drying up. She also felt the warmth of his coat on her cold shoulders.

She thought about his touch earlier in the evening, his gentle hold of her hand, the other arm resting on her waist. His dark, black eyes not so cold anymore (as he had perhaps liked it) looking into hers, shining in the light of the chandeliers as if a light had been also turned on inside of them after a long rest, his lips not mutated into a sneer, but nearly making him look faintly mellow. She hadn’t heard the music anymore, she hadn’t seen the other dancers, the eyes watching them, astonished, shocked even, whispering to each other. _Snape dancing? But that’s impossible! And with Potter of all people, the girl he hates? What is this sorcery?_ She just had felt his warmth near her, his scent filling her senses, making her drowsy, the gentle touch of his firm hands, both of their weights being swiftly swept along the icy floor in a kind of drunkenness although Harriet was sure she had only had water and lemonade to drink.

The song ended and she was afraid to let him go. But to her surprise, he didn’t want to. And then came another song, a sorrowful, a haunting one, but with such beautiful words and melody. He had turned slightly pale as she brought her thoughts about the song to his attention. She had thought about him, looking lonely, imagining him withdrawing to his solitary dungeons, and about her own feelings of being lonely in a way she couldn’t describe to her friends, she couldn’t even understand herself. But he might understand, she thought.

“Are you hurt?” he asked at long last.

“It’s fine…” Harriet said, ignoring the fire building up in her leg, “…thanks.”

“Would you like to get up or are you spending the night here?”

“I…” Harriet hesitated, “…wait a moment.” As she had watched Snape in the snowfall, an idea she rather liked made its way into her head and made her feel downy inside.

She took out her wand out of a hidden pocket of her dress, shovelled a small heap of snow together with her other hand, shortly closed her eyes and then said, after having cleared her throat:

“Nivis!”

It was a wonderful white weeping willow made of snow. A graceful and grand tree, hanging its long flowing branches to the ground as if in mourning.

“Here, it’s yours,” Harriet said.

“I know it doesn’t atone for the thrashing of the whomping willow in my second year, but I thought, maybe you would like it anyway,” she told him, faltering, not quite meeting his eyes.

Severus couldn’t but wonder at the tree now held out to him.

“Where did you learn that?” he stiffly asked.

“Oh, you know,” Harriet started, “I tried to ease the tension of the First Task a bit at the beginning of the holidays. So I went to the library to browse and found this funny book called _100 Useless Spells for Long Winter Nights_ and memorized a few which seemed nice.” She smiled at him.

“Some were really utterly unhelpful, I mean, why on earth would I want to bring myself to hiccup?” Harriet laughed, thinking back to the memory of reading the book on the window sill of the dorm, snow tapping on the window, a warm peppermint tea from the house elves sitting beside her.

“Do you think it would scare Voldemort and the Death Eaters if I suddenly came to hiccup? They wouldn’t expect that at least, now wouldn’t they?”

The subtle tremor of her professor went unnoticed to the young witch, but then he grimaced at this completely quizzical thought of hers and stated:

“I suppose they wouldn’t, Miss Potter, even if I’m otherwise naturally not bound to agree with you.”

Harriet smiled even broader at that. She tried to get herself up but failed, her dress being enormous, and her troubled feet suffering in her too-tight shoes. She fell back down into the snow and this time around didn’t sit anymore but spread herself out on the back, the snow-willow falling down with her as well.

“Aren’t you cold enough as it is? You have been lying in the snow for quite a while, with a dress not quite suited for winter conditions if you haven’t noticed.” She thought she could hear a hint, a quiet breeze of concern in his voice, but it vanished as fast as it had appeared.

“I’m fine,” she laughed and hit him with handfuls of snow, “but it’s nice you care.”

Taken by surprise by the snow and her bold statement, he couldn’t cower and was thereby covered in bits of snow.

“Very funny, Miss Potter,” he sneered, drawling, shaking the snow off his costume.

“I suppose you should fight back, Sir, if you don’t like me to succeed again,” she said with a cunning light in her eyes and playing around her lips.

“I warn you, Miss Potter,” the man answered, “just because it’s Christmas doesn’t mean I can’t take points from you. Besides, it’s not very noble to bestow someone with something and to crush said present before the other part has even laid hands on it.”

But a glimpse of playfulness trickled through his tight armour of gravity, as he himself took a handful of cottony snow and threw it in her direction, which made her wave about with her arms and giggle like a little girl. The heap of snow landed straight on her nose.

“Enough of your little jests, Miss Potter, let me help you up and see to it that our Girl-Who-Lived doesn’t die from hypothermia,” he said, offering her his hands.

“I wish people wouldn’t call me that, it’s stupid,” she said quietly, knowing that he had meant it as a mockery of the phrase itself.

Nevertheless, a smile played on her lips as she took his hands in hers and let him pull her up, not knowing that he was standing on glazed frost and that her weight and the unsteadiness on her feet would pull the both of them down into the snow.

She felt her heart race as their bodies were thrown together tightly, his warm and soft, but damp from the snow, hers cold and soaked and rough because of the dress. Harriet noticed that Snape and she were still holding hands. She thought she heard his heart pound panicked as well, a deer’s heart sensing his predator and looking for a place to run to. But this was Snape, after all, he of all people couldn’t fear, couldn’t panic, could he? 

“Sorry, Sir,” she offered with a stupid little smile, feeling her frostbitten rosy cheeks turn crimson.

He got himself up fast and this time pulled her successfully up as well. He was very snowy which made her laugh inside, she daren’t laugh properly.

She thought she saw confusion in his expression, but after a moment it was again as cold and impenetrable as she knew it. 

Still, for the second time in the evening, he asked her:

“Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” she answered a second time, somewhat out of breath and heart still beating against her ribs, trying to escape its confinement. At last, she really began to shiver, it was kind of cold now she thought about it and she had been outside quite a while, sitting in the wet snow.

As they stood there facing each other in the snow, standing quite close to each other, their breath came out in cold white clouds and merged in the air. 

He pulled out his wand and gave it a poetic wave, leaving hot air streaming out of the tip and then pointed it at her. Her dress began to fume a little as it dried out and she felt her insides slowly warm up.

“Thanks, Sir!” she cheerfully called, having long forgotten the anger she had felt at Ron.

“That’s absolutely more practical than all the spells in my book, I should remember this one!”

“Indeed,” he said.

“But you should dry yourself up as well, you gave me your coat after all…” Harriet said a little guiltily, thinking about his sweet dampness against her body and trying to chase away the feeling of fitfulness growing inside her, a double-bladed sensation.

“As you wish,” said he, drawing his wand elegantly around himself. In an instant, he seemed dry.

“Which reminds me of…” she added and searched for the willow tree in the snow.

“There,” she handed him the tree.

He looked at it strangely, she thought. Then, he touched his wand at the tree, made it shrink slightly and put it in his pocket.

“Now, I suggest you run along, it has been quite a long evening,” Snape said quietly.

“I must say, now I’m dry again, I would like a stroll in the gardens, it’s such a fine evening after all.”

“Very well, Miss Potter,” Snape answered, “I’ll leave you to it.”

Harriet thought about the cloak he had given her, still lying on her shoulders, warming her up.

“Would you care to join me, Sir?” she asked.

“Don’t you think I have other things to do?” Snape asked tightly.

Harriet took a step back.

“Like pulling apart students making out? Taking house points?” she asked a bit embarrassed.

He watched her, like trying to decide if he should shout at her or laugh at her.

“Lead the way,” he briefly said at last, to her utter astonishment. And she led the way along the gardens, trying not to pay attention to her leg hurting so bad from the fall she had to hide her limping from him as she had to keep up with his faster pace. It had begun to snow even more, and the wind was making rounds between and around them as they walked in pleasant silence, only the sound of snow creaking under their feet to be heard.

“It’s beautiful in here,” Harriet said taciturnly, leaving out the part which rang in her head: _with you. _

He seemed to move his head slightly, a hint of a nodding gesture but didn’t break his musing silence. It seemed curious to her, being here, out in the nature, with the man so often seen in the dark confinement of the dungeons, in the fumes of his laboratory, muttering and murmuring soft, almost poetic words to his cauldrons, turning the pages of his old-looking books.

They reached a frozen pond on the far edge of the gardens and had looked at it and at the snow-coated hedges around them for a long while as the snowfall began to transform into a snowstorm.

“We should head back,” Severus said, “before we are flown away by the storm.”

At that, the storm began to rage even more ferociously, making it hard for Harriet to stand straight. Her professor had to take hold of her arm in order to not let her come crashing down once more.

“I don’t know if we’ll make it that far, Professor,” Harriet half-shouted into the now loudly pounding wind.

“Perhaps you’re right, Miss Potter,” Snape said, pondering over something.

“Come, then,” he said, at last, not letting go of her arm in case she felt the need to fall again,

“this way.”

He led the way to a lovely cottage not far away from the pond, although they had quite the trouble to get even there as the sky was throwing swords of snow in their direction.

Harriet interjected with an “Ah!” in amazement, taking in the loveliness of the wooden cottage, but Snape rushed her inside and quickly closed and shielded the door with a slick wave of his wand.

“Well, that’s a nice place. I never knew…,” she started into the darkness, panting a bit from the cold storm and the walk, but Snape cut her off.

“It belonged to the former herbology teacher,” he quickly said in answer, like trying to assure her he couldn’t have had anything to do with a lovely place, whilst illuminating the room with a sway of his hand, “he was quite an affectionate gardener, so he wished to live here, in his garden.”

Harriet had pressed herself against a wall after entering the house, but now she took a step forward on the creaking old floor, to behold her surroundings. The room was quite small, but very warm-looking, although obviously abandoned. It was wooden, there was a fireplace on the right wall and windows on either side as well as straight on; nearly empty, but exceptionally dusty bookshelves (the room smelled dusty as well), other cupboards and a small piano lay on the left side of the wall. A bit further there was a small kitchen linked to the living room with a door leading somewhere else. In the middle of the room, there were two armchairs and a small table and furthermore a staircase leading up.

Harriet pondered if Snape came here often and imagined him standing in front of the cosy windows, allowing a sight at the gardens, which are bound to be exceptionally beautiful in the summer, blooming and flourishing all over. She imagined the warm breeze blowing through the open window, rustling his black hair, the fresh and soothing smell of all the blossoms reaching his senses, little birds floating on the water of the pond, the hedge and the trees allowing to have some privacy from the prying eyes of the castle. She imagined the stillness of this secluded place she had never discovered by herself. A wave of something sweet but sorrowful blew over her, without her knowing, what it was. She knew he had faults, even if she didn’t have particular interest in going them over with Ron. She also thought him broken and lonely in his bitterness and brilliantness, but wouldn’t have dared to mention it to him, even if in the most indirect way possible.

Snape was already blowing both of them dry again. For a moment, he glanced at his work, letting his eyes glide over her dress, her arms and her legs. That’s when he saw that she was standing askew, as she was holding one leg crooked in pain under her dress.

“What is amiss with your legs, Miss Potter?” the man demanded with a critical note in his tone.

“I…didn’t….” Harriet started but didn’t quite know what to say to him.

“I, it’s…a sprain or a strain, I think,” she finished.

“When did this happen?” Snape asked firmly, now looking right into her eyes, black sapphires meeting the emerald crystals, each reflecting an ancient light to the other.

“As I fell down the first time,” Harriet said apologetically.

“And then I fell on you”, Snape started, cutting the words on his lips one by one and throwing them out as if they were back in the potions’ classroom.

“And that, yes”, said Harriet, feeling her face turn red at the memory.

“And you didn’t think to mention it to me? After I asked you…twice?” he said in a threatening voice, spilling the syllables out slowly and painfully.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t want to…” said Harriet, but she couldn’t finish saying what she hadn’t wanted, because Snape made an armchair fly to her from the middle of the room, which pushed her off her feet, so that she landed on the soft velvet fabric.

“There,” he whispered, hissing like a true snake of Slytherin house, almost like parseltongue. He then waved a bench before the armchair and ordered Harriet to lift her legs up on the bench.

“Now hold on,” he said, transfiguring salt shakers and drinking cups and vases into ice cubes, which he wrapped in a towel he probably found in the kitchen. Harriet wondered why he didn’t just _Accio _ice cubes from outside, where one could find whole ice mountains at the moment.

“I need to see your leg,” he then said, kneeling down at her side and after she swallowed and nodded curtly, cautiously moved her dress slightly up, to bare the leg hiding behind the fabric. She saw blood smeared on her dress and a cut on her leg. She shivered at his warm touch, although her leg wanted to shatter from pain. She shifted herself uncomfortably in her armchair, inwardly pleading that the man didn’t think she didn’t like his touch or the care he showed her. He gently took off her uncomfortable shoes.

“It’s sprained, all right,” he said after a while, shaking his head as in disgust.

Then, he murmured some unintelligible words, moving his wand over her leg and suddenly she felt a bit better. Her leg was now blood-free, but the cut was still there.

“I could mostly heal the sprain, but I’m going to have to bind your wound until I can get hold of my potions.” He whipped his wand and in a moment, he held a towel in his hands with which he bound her wound together.

“Thanks,” Harriet mumbled, not looking at Snape’s face but at his hands.

“Now, take this ice and hold it on the swelled spot,” he continued and handed her the towel with ice cubes in it.

It did relieve Harriet’s pain quite a bit and she let a sigh slip at this new feeling of relief.

“You must lie still and rest your leg. No more stupid wandering around,” Snape said and turned away from her. Then he flicked his wand at the fireplace where fire loomed and danced in the next moment and swished it at the table in the middle of the room. The table began to move itself to Harriet’s side and having arrived, it covered itself with two cups steaming with tea, and a plate of cookies, sandwiches and fruit.

“How did you do that, Sir?” Harriet asked curiously and quite in awe of her Professor.

“House-elves,” he answered plainly as if it were obvious. She still didn’t quite understand the principle but nevertheless felt a pinch of quilt thinking about what Hermione had said about house-elves’ rights.

“Drink and eat, it will make you warm and help you heal,” he said.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have my healing potions at hand right now, but later, I should give you something for that strain,” he added, lips pressed together tightly.

He then sat himself down in another armchair at the little table and suddenly seemed exhausted to Harriet.

“Thank you, Sir,” Harriet said and meant it. “I really do appreciate it and I’m sorry that I…”

“Enough,” he said silkily, a note of calm again present in his voice.

They were silent after that, except while sipping at the tea or in Harriet’s case, nipping at her (tofu and hummus) sandwich.

The storm outside hadn’t been calming down, it whistled and howled, lashing against the windows and the door, covering the window panes with white cotton. It was nice and cosy, Harriet thought, to sit here together in the warm room, watching the flames in the fireplace spin around and spout out sparks, drinking tea and being silent but aware of another. Not being alone.

After a long while Snape almost whispered, but loud enough to be heard above the storm:

“I think you should go to bed, Miss Potter, it seems, the storm won’t budge for the time being.”

As Harriet watched at him, questioningly, he started again:

“There is a bed upstairs, I can float you there if you hold still and tell me when it hurts.”

“And you?”

“I will manage,” he answered.

“Okay,” she said.

As he waved his wand and Harriet’s body was brought floating in the air, he asked if she was hurting.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Snape let her gently hover down on the armchair again.

“Don’t l i e to me,” Snape bit in his most famous, intimidating Potions’ Classroom tone, holding onto the arm-rests of her chair, staring at her with his flaming eyes.

“All right, all right, S i r,” Harriet answered impatiently, “it hurts, but how am I supposed to get upstairs, without hurting my leg in the process?”

Snape let go of the arm-rests and straightened up but was quiet for a while. Then he simply said:

“I will have to carry you.”

“Oh. Right.” Harriet felt a wave of warmth strike through her at that.

“Well, let’s get it over with,” Snape said, bending over her to let her put her arms around his neck, “take a hold of me.”

Then, he swooped her into his arms with staggering ease and asked one more time:

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” Harriet answered curtly and this time, he seemed to believe her.

Harriet found it quite captivating to be held by him in this way, even more unusual than being held in a dance, she felt his firm arms on her back and on her legs and she could hold on to the back of his neck and his chest. Most of all, she could look at him, even if he didn’t look at her, occupied with carrying her upstairs without hurting her leg even more and bearing a focused look. It was an impulse that made her do it, she didn’t think it over, couldn’t stop herself. As they reached the top of the stairs, she warily touched his cheek with her trembling fingers.

Snape jerked to a halt and she felt his grip on her tighten.

“What do you think you are doing, Miss Potter?” he roughly asked as if she had offended him. She couldn’t have seen his expression would she have looked at him as he was standing in a shadow.

“I don’t…” she hesitated, fearing to look at him now, dreading what she might see, dreading to breathe, feeling her throat dry up.

“Forgive me, Sir,” she finally said in a hoarse voice after having gathered herself, stealing a quick glance at his shadowed face.

“Have you been drinking?” he then asked.

“If you mean sparkling pumpkin lemonade then yes,” she answered.

He loosened his tight grip on her a little and stepped out of the shadow. Their eyes met for a second, hers without question clouded, his as often, unreadable. Then he carried her into the room and laid her cautiously on the bed without saying another word.

In the small room with only a bed and some cupboards, he immediately scanned the cupboards for pillows and covers, waved his wand to clean them of dust and put some pillows behind her back, others beneath her injured leg, then covered her with quite a few of the covers. She felt uncomfortable in the ball gown but became aware of his black coat anew. It comforted her.

“I wish we could’ve finished the dance…” she said as he turned his back to leave.

He turned his head back in her direction. For a moment he just stared at her with a sharply blank expression, then he simply said:

“Yes,” and left, footsteps echoing on the stairs.

* * *

Severus glowered at the fireplace, at the weeping willow standing on the mantelpiece, _her _weeping willow which he didn’t know the meaning of, thoughts elsewhere entirely. His mind seemed to wander off to the dance earlier in the evening. He had been secretly watching her as she danced her first dance with Mr Patil, saw her yawning of boredom sitting at the table beside Mr. Weasley Jr., saw Dumbledore going to her and asking for a dance, saw them awkwardly whirling over the dance floor, the tall and old wizard together with the small and young witch, both in extravagant robes, Dumbledore in screeching purple, Miss Potter in profound blue. Even though the partners were so uneven, she held herself well and moved with a modest grace suiting her very well.

Then came the panic building itself up inside him.

Dumbledore led her off the dance floor beside him and came to the exact spot where he himself was standing. The Headmaster made his excuses to her and then casually insinuated Severus could be the one to carry on dancing with her.

Dumbledore asked merrily: “Dear Severus, do you dance?”

The younger man looked at him as if the Headmaster had thrown slug slime in his face and asked if he liked it.

“Does it seem as if I was dancing?” Severus shot back, making his voice sound as uninterested and appalled as possible. The whole time, Miss Potter was looking at her Potions’ Professor curiously with these large emerald eyes of hers, eyes he knew only too well, drilling invisible holes into his own, burning as they got on with their work.

Dumbledore, the old fool, only chuckled at that notion and began to philosophize about dancing in general.

“All right, all right,” Severus said, “you win, I surrender.”

With a resigned composure, he only asked her:

“Would you care…?”

Her eyes smiled as she said: “I would,” and let him take her hand, leaving a content Dumbledore sipping at his sparkling pumpkin lemonade.

Being so close to him, she smelled gently of lilac and of freshly fallen rain, reminding him of spring, her hand so small and so very soft he was afraid to lose it or break it. He felt his hand on her waist trembling a little and begged Merlin to not let her sense it. He hadn’t been aware of the time as they floated and flowed over the dance floor, they could have been at it for hours as far as he was concerned, the world around them having been brushed forth along the stream. She seemed to enjoy it somewhat, taking the smile she gave him into account which was so seldom meant for him and thus made his insides melt somewhat. He felt her warm and unsteady breath on his skin, he felt her heart pounding in her chest and couldn’t help himself but feel mildly thankful for Dumbledore’s absurd sense of making other people’s business his own.

As the song finished, Miss Potter asked him if he wanted to leave. Her cheeks were the colour of sweet apples.

“I’ll suffer another dance rather than hear the Headmaster talk about how “dancing is so much like school, although the dancers are both professor and student in this case and thus have to teach themselves, as well as learn from the other.” And then the esoteric nonsense of his speaking of the “meeting of two hearts, for whom the education shall be so effortless it seems they know what to do from just one glance at one another. As in dance, so in life.” What a load of Hippogriff dung,” he sneered. Harriet only half coughed, half chuckled at that.

Then came another song, a song Harriet said “was beautiful”. Now thinking back at the ball, he couldn’t get it out of his head, silly and sappy and wallowing in self-pity as it was:

The mute bird sat by her, was made tame by her moans,

sing willow, willow, willow

the true tears fell from her and softened the stones,

o willow, willow, willow, willow

o willow, willow, willow, willow

shall be my garland.

It told of a weeping woman who had been forsaken by a loved one but approved her lover’s scorns nevertheless because of the strength of her love. The willow tree symbolized the sadness of a love lost and the death of the mourning lover.

He even gathered his courage to pull a strain of her black hair from her face and put it behind her ear, which she friendly acknowledged, sending another wave of warmth and smiles in his direction. It was bliss and torture at the same time. Damn Gryffindors.

And so the song carried them farther, the sound of the lute complementing the voice of the witch singing quite agreeably, Severus thought. The fleeting pluck on the strings, the fragile, sorrowful voice straining the plain but delicate melody.

But gladly for him, the Weasley boy came and interrupted their dance, telling her racily that he had “something very important” to tell her.

“Can’t it wait, Ron?” she asked, hissing, obviously fairly bothered by the interruption as Severus was himself.

“No, it can’t,” he said, determined, sent his Professor a nasty glare, and pulled her aside. Severus tried to erase him out of existence with his angry look back at him, but regrettably, it didn’t work. She looked back at Severus as she was being dragged away by that brute, an apology, and disappointment written all over her lines. That would do for him.

He listened to the end of the song, as he heard her arguing with Weasley:

Take this for my farewell and latest adieu,

sing willow, willow, willow

write this on my tomb that in love I was true,

o willow, willow, willow, willow

o willow, willow, willow, willow

shall be my garland.

And now she was resting only a few steps away from him…if only he could go to her side. But it wasn’t meant to be.

He thought of the soft little fingers of Miss Potter on his cheek. Lily had been her age as she had touched him this way the last time. It had been the beginning of the school term and she had said he looked so pale and bony. Then she had touched his cheek and smiled, saying that she would look to it that he ate a hippogriff’s lot at the feast, no excuses. He had frowned at her at first, but the frown had broken as he couldn’t hold back a little smile growing inside him. He had felt his skin light up at her touch like it did now at the hand of her daughter as every fibre of his being burned for more. _Did she feel the connection without knowing anything about it? Or was it perhaps written into her very being? _

He sent another look at the weeping willow, shivered, and fell asleep in the armchair.

* * *

Harriet sighed but couldn’t have been able to help smiling in the darkness of the room, only somewhat illuminated by the snow at the window. She was tired but couldn’t sleep, she kept rolling the events of the day repeatedly around in her head, a certain figure coming to the surface of their flow more than others, filling her insides with warmth and dread at the same time. _Professor Snape, Severus Snape, Severus_…one name of his sounding cold and cruel, the other, however, the first name, the serious one, she almost dared not even to think of, had a strange quality to it, like a soft and secretive whisper, like something fragile. She liked the sound of it in her head, it gave her comfort.

As she had entered the great hall what seemed like a lifetime ago, she had immediately screened the room for familiar faces. She had had to admit the hall looked spectacular with its grandiose holly berry-covered Christmas trees by the frozen walls and tremendous icicles hanging from the ceiling making her head swirl with their glance as well as a great number of lights small and large floating around in the room – from fairy lights to magical lanterns. But she had also already imagined herself slipping on the frozen floor, falling on her nose in front of the whole school during the opening dance. Having had let out a little sigh, she had found Snape looking at her from afar with an even more annoyed look on his face than usual, which was saying something. He was bound to hate the stupid ball almost as much as she did. She had smiled at him, but he had only deepened his scowl of disapproval.

And yet at present, he was sitting or standing only a few steps away from her. Now that she thought about it, he had been unusually kind to her tonight. On the surface, he had shown his usual Snape-frown. But then he had danced with her, had followed her outside, had helped her up to get up, had accompanied her on her walk, had brought her here, had tended to her leg, had even carried her in his arms. She felt dizzy thinking about it. Funnily enough, she asked herself the same thing he had asked her earlier: Had he been drinking to bear the whole ball business? If not, what was up with Snape?

If only her leg stopped hurting and she could go to him…

Ron could say that he was heartless, but she was certain she knew better. Maybe he even had so much heart, that it hurt to hide and suppress it from the world. But why did he have to smother it in the first place if he did care after all?

Of course, she couldn’t ignore the dark side of him, he had been a Death Eater, for Godric’s sake! But she didn’t know how he had gotten involved with them and why he had abandoned them. He was still a dark, frightening, a broken man, but he also gave his all to hide away the light in him, which Harriet felt with every fibre of her being, being drawn to it like a fly in the darkest of nights.

She took his cloak and buried her nose in it, taking in his smell and the softness of its fabric, smelling of freshly washed linen. And thus, she fell asleep at last.

* * *

It was still night as Severus woke up, but the wind didn’t howl so fiercely anymore. He could still smell her sweet lilac scent in the room.

_Merlin, you fool, you utter fool_, Severus thought to himself. _What did you do? Why did you have to come here with her? Had it really been so impossible to get to the castle in the snowstorm?_ _You are a wizard after all, aren’t you? And with her leg injured… what would Minerva say to this?_

A grown, bitter man, a dark man, a professor, an enemy of her father, a betrayer of her mother, the reason why she herself is so unfortunate, so alone, the Girl-Who-Lived-In-Constant-Danger-Of-Dying-And-Giving-Him-A-Heart-Attack, he is far too old for such foolishness…

_She, Miss Potter, Harriet Potter, Harriet._ No, he must stress her origin, that she was the daughter of Potter and Lily, that he himself was the reason…he cannot allow himself to think of her as anything but a student like any other. But she wasn’t like any other student, was she? Lily and more written all over her, the burden of the whole wizarding world on her shoulders…all because of him, because of his cowardice, his foolishness. Harriet…meaning home and power…but to him, to him it sounded light and pure, it sounded alive. She did have power, however unwillingly, and her home seemed to be here, at Hogwarts, quite like it had always been for himself.

She was his punishment. He wished to vanish or her to vanish and for this foolish task of his to end at last.

The wistful truth was, he didn’t want to admit to himself at all that he longed to be near her and that he secretly wished that she longed to be near him too. It was Lily all over again, only worse. And he couldn’t allow it to cloud his judgement, not this time. He couldn’t bind himself emotionally, not anymore.

He wanted to insult her, make her hate him as he hated himself, but he couldn’t, he was too weak…

_Damn Dumbledore, damn Weasley and most of all damn myself for being so miserable. Weasley was right._

_This has to end. _

He stormed to the door, but hesitated on the threshold, offering a silent murmur of an “I’m sorry” to the darkness, knowing that even if she would have been able to hear it, she wouldn't know the meaning of it. _What a fool he was!_

As he entered the gates of the castle, his flight was held back by Dumbledore.

“Ah, Severus, still out at this time of the night, I see?” his moon spectacles framing the ever-present and ever-so-annoying glint of merriness in his eyes. He didn’t see it necessary to answer such a rhetorical question, it was obvious after all, that he had been out. And even if the older wizard would have been pleased to know why he wasn’t going to please him. So he did what he did best, he grunted at the tall wizard.

“I myself have been attending the loo, old men sometimes have sensitive bladders, you see.”

Severus made a grimace at that information but still didn’t say anything. The next question annoyed him more than anything else thus far.

“Did you enjoy the ball, Severus?” Dumbledore asked hoarsely, slipping his finger into one of his endless pockets and pulling out a colourful wrapper which probably held a cough drop inside.

“What was there to enjoy?” he fired back between his teeth, with a tone as lazy and disliking as he could muster.

“Excuse the musings of an old man, Severus,” Dumbledore chuckled, “but I have discovered that happiness can be found in the strangest of places. And love is a currency we all need more of because we can never have too much of it. As it is, balls are in my humble opinion occasions where love can show itself more plainly and eagerly than on other occasions. Maybe it’s the dance that sets us free.” He seemed to fall deep into thought after that strange statement.

“Perhaps it is best to leave it at that at the time being and let ourselves cherish the unknown lands of sleep. I bid you goodnight, Severus, and sweet dreams!” He left, his bright green robe rustling on the floor.

Severus had turned to stone and watched the Headmaster leave with a fluttering heart long after he had vanished behind the school walls.

* * *

It was bright and calm outside as Harriet woke up in the warm room and had to accustom herself to her new surroundings. She reached for her glasses she hadn’t worn at the ball on the bedside table and immediately noticed the small potion bottle on it, a note left under it.

_Drink the potion, should you feel any pain or swelling in your leg hereafter, go to Madam Pomfrey._

_S. Snape_

She couldn’t help but feel crestfallen at him having left her alone, but cherished this note, the only one besides all of his marks on her badly written essays and exams. But this was something else. She touched his black and strict lines with her lips and smiled.

As she walked downstairs, painless, having taken the potion he had sent her, she gladly thought about the fact that at least he had taken her weeping willow with him. She wondered if he had noticed the willow’s elongated leaves falling to the ground in snowflakes bit by bit just to crown the tree anew after a moment’s pause... She had liked it that the tree felt so alive, moving its branches like being touched by the wind.

It still smelled slightly like him in the living room and she filled her lungs with the sharp and woody, but still pure and delicate scent. It also smelled like breakfast. There, on the table stood a large pot of tea and a substantially full plate of bread, fruit and cookies. She sat down and ate her breakfast but as she reflected on her situation, going through the events of the day before in her head, she realized she still had his black coat on her shoulders, smelling of him and of freshly washed linen. At that, she smiled and was ready to leave.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: “The Willow Song” is a (Elizabethan or earlier) folk song by an unknown author made famous by Shakespeare’s “Othello” through Desdemona’s lament.
> 
> I’m also so sorry for any mistakes, English is not my mother tongue or my first language and I haven’t practised for years. This is also my very first fic!


End file.
